


Hung

by Ladycat



Series: Married [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Silly, always a girl Rodney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mer can't help it.  She actually can't help it because there's something so magnetic, eyes pulling up and to the left where she can stare and stare and think, *I see you.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hung

" _Will_ you stop?" she snaps at Radek. "Go take your man-crush somewhere else, please."

Distantly, in the part of her that used to plan out people's responses before they made them, a habit that got her into enough trouble that she no longer gives that part of her credence (although she can't turn it off, either), she expects Radek to splutter and maybe blush and say things in incomprehensible, babbled Czech that mean _Man-crush? I do not have this insulting thing!_

Even if he _does_. The clock reads 9.:15, which means that's a solid twenty minutes of Colonel Sheppard this and Colonel Sheppard that.

Instead of blustering, however, Radek gives her a sharp look with his bird-bright eyes and nods to himself. "Is not man-crush, actually. Colonel Sheppard is rapidly becoming friend, and like normal human beings, we discuss our friends with other friends. This means _you_ , McKay."

"Yes, yes, you've said enough times."

"I will say more, until you -- "

"I _get_ it."

Radek's grin is kind. "Very well. To repeat myself: I am discussing a friend with my friend."

"Yes, you explained that already." She doesn't give him a pleading look and say but _why_ is he babbling on about the apparently illustrious Colonel Sheppard, because there are others in the lab and she has some pride. Okay, a lot of pride.

Radek can be a mind reader, though, and his grin softens into something sad. "I speak of him because I think, perhaps, that I see something that you do not."

He doesn't explain no matter how much she demands, able to ignore her insults and red-faced imprecations with the ease of long practice. Instead, he talks again of Colonel Sheppard's ability with math, his obvious understanding of Star Trek and the physics behind it. Almost like he's...

Meredith stares at Radek for a full minute. "If you're doing what I think you're doing," she says in a dangerously low voice. "I'd stop. Now."

She stomps off without waiting for an answer, but she can still hear Radek whisper, "Ah. Then I am doubly right."

Which makes even _less_ sense. Colonel Sheppard is, admittedly, better than most of the base commanders they've had. He asks questions -- real, serious questions that don't obliquely reference things like _the box there that goes bing_. He respects them enough to listen to their answers, even if he doesn't always agree with them. And even then, he agrees a _lot_ more than when the last Colonel was here, a sallow, moon-faced man who'd looked at her like she was less than the clod of earth on his heels. Worse, he'd also dismissed her suggestions and recommendations as _irrelevant_ , which of course they absolutely were not. Hers were the most relevant of comments and if he'd just listened to her during that last foothold situation --

Well. She hadn't mourned him that much, honestly.

Sheppard was better. Sheppard treated her the way Carter did, like she might actually be an equal. From the military that's amazing enough, but from a military _man_ , that's something Mer has precious little experience with. The few men she's met that don't mentally call her 'the little woman' (the polite version; she's certain 'bitch' and 'shrew' figure in a lot of the actual appellations) tend not to be the kind who work for the military in any country.

And they certainly don't walk like Sheppard does.

She's not sure when she noticed it, consciously. But it's there, subtle and pervasive, and eventually she'd caught the way Sheppard's hips swung just enough, legs not quite bowlegged but clearly compensating for _something_ , the way he lounges and slouches, minimizing his height and causing his pants to crease and bulge in really interesting -- 

"Not interesting! It's not!"

"What isn't interesting?"

Mer makes a completely undignified squawk and lurches off her seat. Sheppard is there in an instant, battle-honed reflexes getting an arm around her waist before he uses those hips and thighs to push her bottom back to the safety of curved plastic.

He's warm, a part of her mind informs her with almost purring pleasure. His whole body is _warm_ and her side is tingling where he was braced against her. "Ow," she says mechanically.

"Have you eaten?" Sheppard peers at her, drifting into her personal space with a hand loose against her shoulder, frowning. "You're pale. Did you skip breakfast again?"

He toggles his radio before she can say yes, of course she ate breakfast, she always _does_ , and by the time he finishes ordering a couple sandwiches for the two of them, she realizes that actually, she hasn't eaten. Her bagel sits cold and unappealing in her office, she can see it through the slats in the window, where she forgot about it because Radek had appeared, talking about Colonel. Fucking. Sheppard.

Sheppard, meanwhile, is still hovering over her like his mere presence will do all the wonderful things her scientists sigh over. "And now you're red. You brought breakfast and forgot to eat it, huh? Don't worry about it. It's time for a tensies, anyway."

"Elevensies," she corrects. He knows his hobbits?

"Yeah, but it's not quite ten. So, tensies." His grin is charming, open and teasing, and Mer can't help but stare at it. Does he smile at others that way? She thought so, but maybe not. There's something less walled off as he tilts his head at her, encouraging her to share in the joke. Something less removed.

"Okay," she concedes, teeth clenched. "Maybe interesting."

"You gonna tell me the subject?"

"No. No, I'm not." She _absolutely_ isn't thinking about it, and her eyes aren't dropping down his torso, which her brain tells her is lean and long and nicely outlined by his navy uniform-shirt, to where his pants bunch from the way he's half-crouching to look at her and oh, _god_ , he dresses right. 

She fights the urge to cross her legs. "It's of no importance at all," she blusters.

"Uh huh. Just a sec. Thanks, Stackhouse." Sheppard directs the nervous officer to put the tray he's carrying on a table that's not quite as heavily covered as the rest, giving him a -- huh. A totally different smile. This one is primarily professional, even if bringing trays for cranky scientists is in the unofficial job description, but it has more than the hint of friendship. Which is different. Sheppard's smile is more narrow, more pursed, closed lips than the slightly open-mouthed smile he gives her, and Mer suddenly wishes she could see his teeth. They're white and even and surprisingly pretty.

And she is going _insane_.

"So, Carter mentioned you're tinkering with the ARG's again."

She's twenty minutes onto the discussion, which involves pontificating via roast beef, before she gets that she's being manipulated. She doesn't stop talking because Colonel Sheppard is holding his own nicely and actually, that idea he has on wave-form is not half bad and she makes a mental note to explore it further. But he _is_ manipulating her.

With that slightly parted smile and crinkled lines around his eyes, warming them until the faint green there blurs into brown.

"Doctor McKay? Are you all right? You're staring off into space which... I don't think I've ever seen you do. Without a crisis, anyway."

"I -- you can call me Meredith," she blurts out. "Or Mer. Mostly only my brother calls me that, but you could. If you wanted."

Colonel Sheppard's eyes narrow further, twinkling happily as he gives her a lazy -- parted! his lips are parted! -- smile. "I'd be honored to, Meredith," he drawls, pure, summer-sunshine shivering down her spine. "Thanks."

"And?"

An eyebrow goes up. "And?"

"And can I -- oh, you're impossible!" she shouts, deliberately powering to her feet and looking down him and god, that's not just dressed right, that's an _anaconda_ dressed right, the damn pants are pulling like her shirts do when she forgets her waist is one size and her boobs are another. Except she's not thinking about her waist, or her breasts, and she's certainly not thinking about those things in relation to Colonel Sheppard with his too-tight pants, because she's angry and frustrated and doesn't get at all while Radek is laughing into his hand and Colonel Sheppard looks so amazingly pleased, like a kid given a present he wants but didn't think he could have. "Thank you for the sandwiches," she says, mechanically, "good bye."

"Bye, Mer," he calls after her, jovial.

She's going to kill him.

* * *

The next two months are frustrating. Colonel Sheppard is spending more and more time in the labs, teasing and cajoling her scientists out of their normal duties and generally making the whole atmosphere more, well. She'd love to say he's making her scientists just as annoyed but really he isn't. Instead, the lab is suddenly _pleasant_. He's smart enough that she can't really chastise him: his contributions are sometimes helpful and never cross the line of actually disturbing the work her lab has to produce. He just... makes people happier.

Other people. People who are not spending most of their time at their desk, determinedly not looking over their shoulders to see dark, spiky hair be tipped back into a laugh that sounds like an animal _dying_ , which inevitably has most of her fellow female scientists tittering in shared delight. It's other people who don't mind whenever Sheppard leans against their desks or their _chairs_ , hips brushing against certain people's shoulder blades, or a amicable hand patting shoulders or, memorably, once the back of her _neck_ , cupping warmth and security there until she stops hyperventilating and figures out the problem.

And yes, okay, so it's not other people. Other people like Sheppard just fine. Output is actually _better_ since he makes more frequent stops at the labs. So is their defense rate, because since Sheppard is here, his men check in more frequently -- he's even commandeered Mer's personal office for a few meetings -- which means when it's a day that ends in _y_ and something breaks, explodes, or attracts alien attention, there are more soldiers immediately on hand.

It works.

And she is going _mad._

"Are you a goose?" she snaps at Simpson. "Because you sound like one with all that _yammering_."

"I'm pretty sure geese don't yammer. They honk," Simpson shoots back without missing a beat and even goes so far as to _toss her hair over her shoulder_. Simpson! Who knows even less about dresses and makeup and being female than _Meredith_ does, a fact they've commiserated over several times! "And I need your signature."

Mer signs without reading. There is a revolution going on in her lab and she can't do anything about it. Last week, Biro had actually started _flirting_ with the soldier that usually brings her and Colonel Sheppard their lunch, when Sheppard can't himself, and Biro does not flirt. Not _ever_. She asks, direct and forthright, and there's a rumor that says she bites off the heads off her lovers while mating. There has never been a repeated assignation in all the years Mer's worked here. And certainly never _flirting._

She gets the whole black widow thing a lot, herself, though. But the rest of it!

"This is your fault," she hisses, glaring. "This is all your fault!"

Sheppard doesn't bother looking up from his stack of paperwork, just idly kicks her ankle underneath the table. "You're gonna have to tell me what I've done before I'll cop to it."

"Oh, you _know!_ " Which, actually, isn't true, she doesn't think. But she's so angry and frustrated that she doesn't have the words to convey what he's doing to her, to her _lab_ , and anyway, Sheppard won't listen. He's too busy giving her a smile that's soft around the edges, reaching out and circling her wrist in a loose grip.

"No, I don't, actually. And it's time for a break. Your heart rate's starting to go up. You hit a record, you know. A whole four hours without you spiking over a hundred!"

The strangle, inarticulate noise that escapes earns her nothing but a grin and a squeeze of her wrists. Mer tries desperately not to catalog the sensation of his fingers on her skin, the way she can almost feel the specific whorls that mean Colonel John Sheppard and no one else --

"C'mon. We're taking lunch out, today."

"Oh, we are not! I have a simulation -- "

"That won't be done for three or four hours, and Zelenka would be the one to let you know if anything's wrong anyway." He's so fucking patient with her. Unflappable, even as he practically drags her down the hallways. "So instead of using the radio, he'll use the cell phone." John produces the silver bullet-looking cellphone that he's taken to carrying for her -- shes' got another on the same line, and if she doesn't pick up in four rings, he does; she's much better about answering, now -- "C'mon, Mer, it's nice outside. I want something not prepared by the military."

"You mean that greasy spoon you love. The one with -- " With _her_ , that stupid, dark-haired girl with the hippy name that gives Sheppard cow-eyes and vapid smiles every time they go there to eat. She always leans too close, too, like she can see the way Sheppard holds himself just like Mer, the way he holds his hips _out_ , and maybe even the reason why.

Not that Mer's seen that. Or thought about it.

She _absolutely hasn't_ thought about it.

Not even when the shower's on and her fingers are slick and tingling from her own heat, her mouth parted as she thinks if she could even _manage_ it, if it would hurt, god, would she even be able to fit it in her mouth? She loves giving blow jobs, but she's still a woman and comparatively smaller in scale than Sheppard. Everyone accuses her of having a big mouth, but does that mean _physically_ bigger? Compared to another woman, to a man?

Mer climbs into Sheppard's truck and looks across worn bucket seats, watching as Sheppard climbs in: legs spread, pants bulging and god, it's _moving_ , she can see it, before it settles back to the right, forced there by the seam of his pants. It's kind of alarmingly big, from that angle, and Mer gulps, suddenly wondering if it will get even bigger when hard. Some guys didn't, although she's never seen that for herself.

While she's not unexperienced at all, Mer knows her sample base is pretty narrow. So he might not get bigger, especially since he's roughly twice the size of her last partner, and she is going _insane_. It's all she can think about, for the last two months! Not just Colonel Sheppard and his infuriatingly different smiles, or the way he sometimes will stare at her, just stare, lazy and still like he might even be happy. It's her scientists, too, always gossiping about him and some of them have noticed the way he walks just like Mer, and their eyes _follow_ him and all she wants to do is jump in front of them and say _mine_ , even if he isn't, even if he won't ever be.

Because she's Meredith McKay and guys with big dicks -- _military_ guys with big dicks -- don't exactly pine over scientists that are politely referred to as "that vicious bitch".

"Oh, my god," she moans and puts her face in her hands.

The truck immediately decelerates and she's not at all surprised when it makes a few unexpected turns -- the diner is to the east and they're going south, now -- before pulling off onto rougher road. Sheppard doesn't say anything, which she appreciates, as he turns off the engine and they both listen to it tick cool under the blinding Nevada sun. It's stuffy and warm, but Mer appreciates that. Sometimes warmth can be worn like a cloak, its effects muffling other, more personal reactions.

Her eyes sting. "I can't _work_ like this," she tells her palms. "My projects are all suffering and I swear, I am losing brain cells every single time this happens. They're probably atrophying out of sheer _shock._ "

"Your projects aren't suffering."

"Oh, yes, because you're an accurate measure of how brilliant I am."

"Maybe not, but Carter is. She says you've made some brilliant discovers the past few weeks."

"I have?" She has? Okay, so singularity theory is a work of genius, if she does say so herself, but it's not anywhere near completed enough to be implimented and Carter had been understandably cautious about her allocation of time. "She said that?"

John waits until she's looking at him before nodding. "Yup. She said I probably shouldn't tell you, since you were too distracted to notice."

"But you're telling me now."

"It wasn't the right time, before."

That... makes no sense. "But why is _now_ the right time?"

"Because before you didn't need the encouragement," Sheppard says, expression unreadable. "Now you do."

Oh. Okay, she can magnanimously agree that there's logic to the statement. It makes her feel kind of small and maybe even a little humble, though. She's not used to it. "I'm not some fainting flower you have to prop up. I'm a brilliant, talented scientist working with the kind of equipment and minds that other scientists would _orgasm_ over, and I'm in charge and -- "

And Sheppard's hand is on her forearm, rubbing up and down soothingly, even with the lab coat in the way. "And I'm not talking to you like I'd talk to a fainting flower. You _are_ a brilliant scientist with a lot of responsibilities, but sometimes you don't see things. I do."

Mer can't help it. She actually can't help it because there's something so magnetic, eyes pulling up and to the left where she can stare and stare and think, _I see you._

The truck is getting thick but neither of them move.

"Colonel Sheppard -- "

"Will you _stop_? You always call me that! Half your fucking lab calls me John, but not you, _Doctor_ McKay," he snarls at her, eyes hot, yanking his hand back and opening up an ocean of distance between them. "You have to -- "

"You never gave me permission!" she shouts back and this is better. Anger is better, she knows how to handle that. "I waited, I was _pointed_ , and you just smirked at me, you stupid flyboy, like you were withholding it on purpose!"

"I was _teasing you!_ I was playing a game, Christ, Mer, it's called _flirting_! Don't you get how much I -- " And he moves, or she moves, it doesn't matter because his mouth is hot and bruising against her own, kissing her fiercely as he pushes her against the door, squirming over the seat until most of his weight pins her there and he's still kissing her, still yelling at her without any words at all.

Mer kisses back as hard as she can, but he's _heavy_. Her body is tingling everywhere, like pins and needles without the potential for pain, and it's _there_ , hot and solid against her hip, his hands clutching her shoulders, her back and then sliding up to cup her neck and.

And she just melts.

It's not conscious, because her mind wants to kiss back, wants to touch him the way he's been so comfortable touching her. But she can't: not with Sheppard stretched out over her, solid, male warmth that makes her want to lie back and spread her legs, something she's never once experienced before. It's instinct so powerful she shakes with it, moaning into him even as he sucks on her tongue, finally getting one hand up to cup his jaw.

Eventually, Sheppard backs off enough that he can pant wet and gasping against her chin. "I had a picnic basket," he mutters.

"What?"

"I was gonna make you lunch. And maybe try to feed it to you."

"You're a _romantic?"_ she says, incredulous.

He flushes, but maybe that's the heat of the car or of her, and ducks his head as much as he can given their position. "Maybe."

"I, um. Don't actually object, you know. I like food. Especially when others bring it to me."

"I know. My guys think of it as the thrice-daily tribute."

She waps him on the shoulder, too light to hurt either of them, feeling his rumbling laughter echo through her and Jesus, yes, that's his dick. Sheppard's dick, hot despite two layers of clothes, laying firmly against her hip. "Other presents are good too," she manages. It comes out strangled and breathless; she feels like she's going to shiver out of her skin, turned inside out.

"Yeah?" He smiles at her, closed-mouth, but with something that gleams brighter than the wildest supernova in his eyes. He _moves_ , not quite a stretch, not quite a rock and oh, oh, she has to squirm in return because now he's centered over her, hand planted on the seat and it's right where she wants, right, right -- 

"Your scientists have been betting how long it'd take before you made a move," he tells her. His nose keeps brushing hers, lips tangling together with wet, soft sounds. "Last week they started asking me why _I_ wasn't."

"Why weren't you, then?" This isn't how courtship is supposed to go, really. He's supposed to make his intent clear and she's supposed to either say yes or no, maybe even demure like a character out of romance novels she used to analytically read for some clues she wasn't getting on her own. This is like leaping over not one or two hurdles, but _all_ of them. 

Like taking off from a cliff and knowing it's either fly or fall.

"Wasn't sure you wanted me to."

His eyes go dark when he says that. Closed off again, like he's waiting for her to say that he's right, and she doesn't. Which is so patently ridiculous that she lets herself get just a little bit angry. "You -- I've been staring at your dick for _months_ , Sheppard!"

He jerks up to stare at her: eyes wide is a good look on him. "You were? Radek said, but... "

"What the hell else could it be!" And she's going to have _words_ with Radek, as soon as she gets back to the lab.

Maybe next week sometime.

Sheppard shifts again, and she has to bite her lip, trying not to arch because he's getting _harder_ and _growing_ and there's no way she can possibly take all of him inside of her. Not at first, anyway, no matter how much the tingling turns into a throb of ache and want, her legs widening to cradle his hips while inside she goes liquid with acceptance. They'll try _lots_ of times, she thinks, until she can.

She's a scientist, after all. She'll make it work.

"I thought -- god, _Mer_ \-- that it might be my gun," Sheppard is saying. He starts to rock almost imperceptibly, thick and hard right over the seam of her pants, digging the material into her clit. "You've got a rep for not really like military guys or their guns."

"Because military guys tend to be walking charicatures of stupidity and guns are fine, guns are great, they keep me safe." With thigh holsters, she thinks, dreamily, tight around the thigh.

John makes a low noise that's pure sex. "Mer," he gasps, "Meredith, tell me this is, tell me it's okay."

"You worry too much," she whispers and cups his jaw again, fingers scraping over stubble as she kisses him as fiercely as he kissed her before. He moans into the kiss, surging even closer; and then he's gentling the kiss, slowing it into something sweet and careful, fragile like this is new instead of logical, like it's tentative instead of inevitable. She kisses him through it, waiting with a patience she's never known before.

"I want this," she tells him, voice strangely small.

He kisses her cheeks and her nose. "You were staring at my dick? Really?"

"Oh, don't tell me I'm not the first women who's been forced to mathematics before sleeping with you."

"Actually, you're kinda the first." It's natural for them to disengage, to slide back to their respective seats. The heat that's sprung up, unrelated to the sun, doesn't dissipate at all. It's still there, prickling her skin and making her sweat, only waiting. Banked to embers. They don't need to rush this. Sheppard glances over at her and there's a hint of shadow appearing in his eyes. "I, ah, have had partners -- "

"Please," she dismisses, reaching out to lay her hand directly between his legs. He gasps, gratifyingly, flushing beet red as he holds as still as he can. His cock throbs under her touch and she carefully curves a thumb, smirking when he goes completely rigid in reaction. "We're not having penetrative sex today, anyway."

"Oh?" he chokes.

"Not yet, anyway." He's not objecting, though, not with the way he's sweating, hands slipping on the wheel. It makes her feel more than a little smug. "Hm. Do I need to drive? Because I'm not known for being a fan of car crashes, and even less so now."

That goads him into opening his eyes. "Mer -- "

"Yes, John?" His throat bobs appealing in reaction, eyes wide, and she wants to lean over and lick and bite along the muscle. She wants him to always look at her like that, with wonder and attraction and something like the universe spiraling over both of them. "You might want to hurry up and get us home. I have very poor impulse control and the front seat of a Ford monstrosity is _not_ where I want our first time to be."

It's a sideways nod to John's romantic side, although Mer says it mostly because they're in _bucket seats_ , which is a world of no. Whichever the reason, John finally wakes up enough to give her a swift, bright kiss before he guns the engine into a roar. "Right," he says and if he's speeding, she's not going to complain. This time. "Right. Mer -- "

"You know _math_ ," she says, eyes half closed, body thrumming along with the engine. Her hand is still stretch across the cabin, touching him, his stomach inhaling against her elbow and she wants to wrap herself up inside of him, to have him breathe against her skin and taste her. "How could I say no to that, John?"

"So it's just that I know numbers," and the teasing curl of pleasure is back in his voice, a lazy drawl that she knows means _love_. She doesn't know how she knows it, but it's true: gravity works, the sky is almost always blue on a habitable planet, and Lt. Colonel John Sheppard has been in love with her since he arrived on base, six months ago.

"Take me flying, John," she whispers while the truck gains momentum beneath them, John's hands white knuckled on the wheel. "I want you to take me flying."


End file.
